The 57

By Pat Gallagher

I didn’t notice her when I got on. It is my first time riding the #57 bus in our new neighborhood. Figuring out the cost of the trip and digging in my purse for the correct change preoccupies me. As the bus lurches into action I grab the pole, struggle to keep my balance, and fling myself into the nearest vacant seat. Fumbling with extra coins, I toss them into my purse and hear a voice nearby.  “Excuse me,” she says.  I look up.  She is sitting to my right, on a seat reserved for the elderly or disabled. “Excuse me,” she says again, leaning forward. “Would you take some advice from an old lady?”

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The Last Time I Saw Marty

By Marge Roth

The last time I saw Marty I didn’t think he looked well – a little pale, a little pudgy. But he was his same sweet self. Our periodic reunions were always special, illuminated by warmth from the past, and unfulfilled connections we didn’t really understand.

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Fitting In

By Marge Roth

I was always a child who fit in–at least I felt like it. I always expected to become part of whatever group there was, or might be, and for the most part, that’s the way my life went. Sometimes this had more appearance of fitting in; I only became aware of that when something was said that roused some discomfort in me, an awareness that distance was being created between me and whoever.

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My Home

By Marge Roth

There was a time in Brooklyn in the 1930’s when, in the several square blocks in our neighborhood with which I was familiar, as an observing 10 year old I was affected by the differences in people.

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Wanda

By Martina Reaves

She first arrived at our front door when we lived in Albany at the top of the hill. Skinny and dark black, she looked like a Kenyan long-distance runner and seemed ageless. “Hi, I’m Wanda, your new housekeeper from Marvel Maids.”

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